Fuck! Whatever. I'm still (and I mean it) going back someday. I may be old and crippled and full of dementia, but I'm totally (and I mean it) going back. Quote me, suckers.
1. Speaking of dementia.... Huh? What was I saying? Dammit, this always happens.... Oh yeah, speaking of dementia, I feel it's perfectly acceptable to not want to be an old geezer who can't even remember the last time I.... Huh? Who are you? Oh yeah, I don't want to be a baby again. I don't want to be fed. I don't want to be fucking changed. Nope.
I think the best course of actions is as follows:
- Place loaded, cocked .45 (a la HST) in a safe deposit box.
- Place tattoo in obvious place that says, "If this tattoo doesn't make any sense get your ass to the Main Street Bank - safe deposit box 1024 (key and directions are in pink elephant on mantle [or whatever, details can be worked out]) - look inside - thank self for the future gift."
- Follow instructions.
- Thank self for future gift.
- Boom! Ha-ha!
Oh yeah, San Diego. What did I do?
2. I went on a mountain bike ride. No, not a recreational ride. I mean a real ride. With five other guys that were either good, young, knowledgeable of the terrain, or in good shape. Or combinations therein. Me? I was none of the above. The last time I went on a real ride was like in 1995. Ha! So, whatever, you only live once, right? See above, what, I'm not going to go? No way. I'm going every time until I literally cannot.
So, this one guy, Doug (who used to be a road bike racer at UCLA, i.e. chops city), asks me, "so you ride?" I'm like, "Nope. Not in a long time." He laughs like I'm kidding. Whatever. Oh, and I haven't ridden clip-less in a decade either. Basically, I was headed out to die.
These guys kicked my ass. I knew I was in trouble at minute 3 into the two plus hour ride when we "dropped in" here (see pic). Yes, there's a trail there. This is the biggest trail of the ride. The best part was this bushwhacked loop that was actually under the sage brush. There was a canopy. So, you are simultaneously trying to ride single-track, loose dirt trails and not take your head off.
I could go on. Let's just say, I only fell about five times. Ran completely out of energy. Walked the bike down and up several hills (the best part of being my age is knowing my limits) and opted out of two loops. I survived with only one sore ass and a few very minor scrapes. Good for me. Ha! Somehow this is a victory.
The worst part is now I have the bug. In my head I'm all like, shit, I could easily do this - there were several times on the ride where I had my legs/chops and felt natural - if only I had the equipment. The slippery slope.
3. I discovered the Orioles were in town. In San Diego. God bless interleague play. Blech! So, through the magic of Fathers Day, Mark and I ended up with tickets (to the Toyota Terrace level - $49.50 seats).
No, I know there has always been a lot of advertising in baseball and all of professional sports. But, sometimes you have to laugh at what has to be either shrewd marketing or just plain careless marketing. I mean, Toyota Terrace? WTF?
At what point are the returns to your company not equal or greater than the cash you laid out? I mean, Toyota Terrace? So, Hebrew National feels it's a wise business decision to sponsor the little "Guess the Attendance" schtick in the 8th. Like, "I had such a good time at the game. Especially the Petco Park Guess the Attendance presented by Hebrew National. I was right on too guessing 24,384 paid tickets." So, am I to go buy some franks now? Like I said, WTF?
In fact, there's no longer a moment of peace in any professional - major or minor - event. We entered to the recorded announcements about how to enjoy our "Petco Park experience" to having to sit through dozens, possibly hundreds of ads interspersed throughout the game. Each batter even had 30 seconds of some lame ass song to accompany him to the plate.
Anyway.... Where was I? Oh yeah, so I'm back from San Diego and am nearly over my usual post-California depression. I always get in a fairly serious funk because I'm leaving the homeland. The place that I get and that gets me. My home. The west (the best). Cali. Cal. The golden state. Blah-blah-blah. And I'm always leaving the best-est of friends behind.
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